Leaving Song
by noki4
Summary: "Reach out, and you may take my heart away." Alfred thought that finding out Arthur slept with teachers for grades was the worst thing to happen to him. He was wrong. Gakuen AU. AlfredXArthur, mentioned ArthurXothers.
1. what befalls the flawless

_imperfect cry, and scream in ecstasy_  
_so what befalls the flawless_  
_look what i've built it shines so beautifully_  
_now watch as it destroys me_

_- _AFI

_

* * *

_

Alfred had thought that finding out that Arthur Kirkland - his childhood hero/friend, his secret crush, his favorite person-to-tease in the whole wide world - slept with teachers for his grades and position was the worst thing that could happen to him.

Alfred was heartbroken because he loved Arthur. He was furious because his sense of ethics and morality - his hero-complex, Arthur had dubbed it with what Alfred thought was affection, but now he wondered if it was exasperated condescension - was deeply offended. So of course he confronted Arthur about it.

What happened next proved that finding out about Arthur and his 'arrangements' with the teachers wasn't the worst thing that could happen to Alfred.

Sleeping with Arthur was.

He didn't know how it had ended up with Arthur moaning below Alfred on the sofa of the council-room, except that it probably had to do with the rum Arthur had offered him to drink (Alfred had thought it was apple juice and then was too proud to stop drinking) when Alfred had first accused him, inviting Alfred in a too-smooth voice to "sit down and we'll talk about it."

Alfred really had a very bad head for alcohol.

And he was talking, waving his hands, whining, shouting. And all Arthur did was nod, and refill his glass - yes, a full glass - of rum, and oh yeah, slowly and absently unbutton his shirt.  
Ten minutes and way too much rum for him to handle later, Alfred was living out a dream he'd been having since he was old enough to have that kind of dream - he was fucking Arthur Kirkland. Arthur was naked, his pale-cream body flawless, slim but deceptively strong, his green eyes brighter than stars, the look on his face enough to make Alfred come all on its own. His mouth could do things Alfred had never imagined. His hands were unerringly accurate in where to touch Alfred that would bring the American boy to a fever of arousal.

It was blazing hot. It was the hardest Alfred had ever come in his life. And when it was over and Arthur had wordlessly dressed himself up again and sat back down to resume doing paperwork, Alfred had slunk out the door feeling dirty, unhappy, and nearer to tears than he'd been for years.

When he thought back on it, that had really been the beginning of the end.

When he sat in class, he couldn't stop wondering if the teachers now lecturing at the blackboard had fucked Arthur. If they'd forced Arthur or if he'd seduced them into it like he had seduced Alfred - he couldn't decide whether they were pedophile monsters or weak-minded fools. He couldn't stop wondering about coach, if Arthur knelt in front of coach under the bleachers and sucked him off in order to be excused from PE class. He couldn't stop wondering about his classmates, his schoolmates. Who had slept with Arthur? What had they offered him in return for the pleasure of the British boy underneath them, for the use of his body?

He hated them all. And he hated that he was no better, that he'd done it too, and he hated himself.

He avoided Arthur, found himself progressing from avoiding eye contact to plotting elaborate routes around the school in order to not be near where Arthur was. He stayed away as carefully as a deer keeping away from hungry wolves. His grades dipped. He began to skip practices, and then outright dropped from the team, killing their chances for a championship and leaving them without the leadership of their captain.

Everything that he had taken joy in had been marred. He picked fights - he broke Francis Bonnefoy's nose, and then Gilbert Beillschmidt's arm when the German boy came after him for Francis's sake. (He knew, by then, that they were among Arthur's most frequent bedmates among the students) When his cousin Matthew tried to talk to him he snarled and shoved the other boy away. He mouthed off to teachers and laughed in their faces when they tried to discipline him. He mocked his coach openly, to the man's face, as a washed-up has-been who had never been good enough for the professional leagues, and when the coach - losing his temper - swung at him, he swung back, and gave the man a black eye. Unfortunately, with the coach swinging first, Alfred now had grounds to sue the school and everyone knew it.

By the time his angry and worried parents yanked him out of Hetalia Academy, it was hard to say who was more relieved to see him go: the teachers and other students, or Alfred himself.

When Alfred, dressed in civilian clothes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, walked to the waiting car that would take him to the airport, he showed none of the shame or guilt or slow wistfulness that most expelled students showed. Instead, his head high, his gaze fixed on the car, he walked fast, as if his foremost concern in life was to leave. He had the air, not of someone fleeing, but someone leaving. The difference was very clear in him. He never looked back once.

If he had, though, he would not have seen Arthur watching him go. The Council President was watching from behind the blinds of his window, the slats tilted so he could see out, but no one could see in. He watched Alfred get into the car, he watched the car drive away, and when it was gone he stood there watching the empty street for a very long time.

* * *

Written for the USUK comm, request by **rurushuu**.


	2. were you sent to save me

It was supposed to end as a oneshot but I hadn't seen OP's request for a happy ending. So I continued. No happy ending YET, but I promise there'll be one.

* * *

_don't waste your touch, you won't feel anything_  
_or were you sent to save me_  
_i've thought too much, you won't find anything_  
_worthy of redeeming_

- AFI

* * *

Everything might break or tarnish or rust, but not Alfred - Alfred was the one bright thing left in Arthur's life.

* * *

Arthur could remember the very first time he'd met the American boy - the tiny little thing he'd been, all big blue eyes and pink cheeks and a mop of tow-blond hair. He'd buried his face shyly in his mother's shoulder as Arthur came closer, peering at the first child he'd ever met who had been smaller than himself. Arthur had adored baby Alfred on sight, had made gentle overtures and coaxing noises - like his mother with injured birds - offering toys, a scone, a sippy-cup of milk to share - until Alfred learned there was nothing better than to crawl into Arthur's lap for cuddles and kisses.

That was how they grew, loving and sweet and adoring each other, Arthur the protective doting elder, Alfred the worshipful, wide-eyed younger. They were each other's suns, the center of the other's universe.

And then Alfred moved away - weeping and promising to return, but he left. And by the time Alfred returned, everything had changed.

* * *

Everything had changed. His sweet gentle mother had grown aged and gray under the burdens of life and loveless marriage, withered like a wildflower in winter. Sweet and gentle to the end to her only son, even to the stepsons that were none of her blood but whom she loved nonetheless, but there was an end. And the house was bereft of her, and much the worse for it. Arthur's elder half-brothers had loved her, and resented that she had loved Arthur the most, even if she had never shown it. They shunned him. His father ignored him. And Alfred was gone.

All sweetness and gentleness had left Arthur's life by the time his mother had died; all sweetness and gentleness inside Arthur himself followed suit shortly thereafter. By the time Arthur was in his teens he was a hard-drinking, chain-smoking fuck-up (his own words) who fought and fucked at the drop of a hat, sometimes both at once - he lied and cheated and stole - forged signatures and vandalized buildings - hotwired cars just to take them for drunken joyrides.

And then his father noticed - noticed only because he thought it might reflect negatively on him and his business. He hauled Arthur into his office, gave him a few cutting rebukes - as cool and impersonal as employer with employee - threatened to give the few pretty things Arthur's mother had left for her son to his half-brothers - and shipped Arthur off to boarding school, the esteemed Hetalia Academy.

Arthur quieted, under the threat, but did not really improve. He did appear to. He was top of his class and president of the student council. But he still smoked and drank. Instead of stealing and vandalizing, he traded blowjobs and the use of his ass for grades and favors.

And then Alfred came back into his life. Taller now, tall as Arthur at first, and then taller still after a little while - baby-round face beginning to angle into maturity - broad-shouldered and leanly muscled - but under the oversized leather jacket and the glasses he was still Alfred all over, sun-bright and sky-eyed and always smiling. He still bounded to give "Artie" hugs and cuddlings, he still brightened up like a sunrise just to see the older boy, he still smiled and wanted to eat with Arthur and watch movies with him (And he still loved Disney - openly, at that) and wanted to make Arthur watch him at his games, just like a child yelling for his mother to watch him do something impressive - in short, he wanted to spend all his time with Arthur, and wanted Arthur to spend all his time with Alfred.

So of course Arthur had to pretend the overgrown child was an annoyance instead of the only dear thing left in the world to Arthur; he had to wriggle uncomfortably out of embraces and to snap irritated dismissals; he had to shove Alfred away and scowl until his thick brows formed a single angry unbroken line.

Alfred was too pure, too bright and beautiful for the ugly, sticky world Arthur lived in. Alfred did not deserve to be made fun of by the likes of Bonnefoy and Braginsky, who would coo and smile under eyes as cruel as stone; and Alfred could not learn what Arthur did with them and the others in the darkness of locked rooms, or Arthur's heart would break as Alfred's trust in Arthur would; and Alfred could never, never, thrice never, know what Arthur wanted to do with Alfred - to Alfred - because what Arthur wanted was worse than all of the rest put together. He had been thoroughly ruined and corrupted by what he'd done and what he'd let others do to him; but he hadn't realized how much of a degenerate he had become until he looked at Alfred and dreamed of things he never should have dreamed about his "Alfie".

Therefore Arthur treated Alfred mostly like a stray dog, and Alfred only laughed and continued to bounce around Arthur with only occasional flickers of hurt confusion. He reacted to Arthur's angry behavior exactly the same as if they had been endearing, friendly actions, and aloud Arthur cursed him for being too stupid to leave Arthur alone, and silently loved him all the more for it.

Until, of course, one day, Alfred had discovered what Arthur really was after all.

* * *

Arthur had come into his office to see Alfred waiting for him, for the first time neither smiling or pouting childishly - just grim, unsmiling, his blue eyes darkened, jaw clenched so that Arthur could notice the line of it. Before Alfred had said anything, Arthur had known.

Flailing like a drowning man without a lifeline, Arthur had hardly heard Alfred's hurt, accusing tones - but picked out enough words to know his worst fears were coming true. He poured himself a shot of rum from his personal flask to strengthen himself, had offered some to Alfred.

He had nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. His head was spinning and his chest felt hollowed, caved in. Alfred was in front of him. Alfred knew. He knew!

Sex was a coping mechanism - something to barter with. Arthur gave people sex - people gave him what he wanted. He offered it to Alfred. He wanted Alfred. He crawled into Alfred's lap, purring, lapping at the line of his jaw, nipping at Alfred's earlobe, shoving the jacket off those broad shoulders and using Alfred's sloppily-fastened tie to yank (hah, he thought half-hysterically even as he did it - Yank.) the younger boy's face to his, so he could kiss him.

Alfred knew. It was Arthur's nightmare. He was kissing Alfred, pulling him to the couch, running his hands all over that sun-tanned, muscular body like he had wanted to since he had seen Alfred again. It was Arthur's dream. It was dream-that-was-wrong and nightmare-that-was-inevitable all rolled into one feverish moment.

He finished, Alfred finished inside him. Overwhelmed, Arthur stood up on shaky legs, dressed himself with numb fingers and a mind whirring uselessly like a wheel suspended in mid-air. He could not speak, he could not look Alfred in the eye. He sat down behind his desk, where he always felt most in control - the desk which was the one place he had never defiled - and in order to occupy his shaking fingers began to rifle through the papers left in his tray without once registering a single letter that was printed on them. He waited for Alfred to speak, for Alfred to begin so Arthur could reply, just like it always had been.

Instead, when he looked up, when he could bring himself to, Alfred was gone and Arthur was alone in the council-room.

* * *

He knew what Alfred must think of him now. He wandered through his days in a numb daze, unable to finish thoughts, unable to meet Alfred's eyes. Alfred was avoiding him too, he realized after a while, and he could not bring himself - coward that he was - to seek the younger boy out, despite missing him so hard it was a physical ache.

Alfred, golden boy of the Academy, began falling into the same trap that Arthur had long ago. He fought and he mocked and he skipped classes and practices. Arthur would torture himself at night wondering if Alfred - now that Arthur had defiled his innocence - found solace in the bodies of others. Francis had known what happened, somehow - went over to taunt Alfred or proposition him or both - and came back with his nose swathed in white gauze. Even that was not enough for Arthur to smile, nor when Gilbert appeared the next day with his arm in a cast.

"A rebel without a cause," Arthur had overheard someone saying, mockingly, "...probably on drugs or something."

Arthur blamed himself. He kept telling himself he would apologize to Alfred, make it right somehow - but then one day he heard that Alfred's parents were in the office, finishing paperwork, and that Alfred was leaving the school, and he knew it was too late.

He watched Alfred leave from his window, recalling how similar it was to that last time he'd seen Alfred back when they were both children, the last time he'd seen Alfred being bundled into a car to take him to the airport, just like now. But back then Arthur hadn't been hiding behind a window-pane, and Alfred had clung to him tearfully until the last moment. Back then Arthur hadn't been ashamed to cry in front of Alfred. Back then, Alfred had waved frantically to Arthur through the back-window of his car until the car was out of sight.

Now there was no tears, no waving, no goodbye hugs and no promises that Alfred would one day return.


	3. i never said goodbye

_i left it all behind, and never said goodbye  
i left it all behind, and never said goodbye  
i left it all behind, and never said goodbye  
i left it all to die_

_-_AFI

_

* * *

_

Alfred's father was in the Army - a charismatic, charming, very competent man who was slated for general's stars, and who was sent all over the world to represent the United States Armed Forces. It was during a stint in England that little Alfred had met Arthur in the first place. It was a reassignment to Germany that had torn the two little boys apart. He was not a cruel man; he genuinely loved his son. But he had always hoped that his golden boy, his smart, strong, athletic son would follow him into the Army; he had been disappointed at Alfred's insistence at attending Hetalia Academy instead of the military school where he and his father - Alfred's grandfather - had been educated.

And look how right he was! One year in that effete European institution had turned his son from a happy, popular boy into a sullen, glaring troublemaker. Colonel George W. Jones just knew this would never have happened if he'd put Alfred into the Fortress like he had wanted.

So he did. He called in some favors, promised some more, used his name and his father's, and got his son enrolled as a first-year cadet into the West Virginia Military Academy - nicknamed the Fortress.

* * *

The funny thing was how Alfred's being at the Fortress was exactly the opposite route of how he had been at Hetalia. He'd arrived in Hetalia golden and shining, feeling sun-blessed. Everyone loved him. He loved everyone, but especially Arthur. And then everything went bad, and the gold tarnished into dark, cold iron-feelings.

He came to the Fortress snarling and angry, a troublemaker with a reputation. He hated everyone; everyone watched him warily. But the teachers didn't coo at him and pet him (didn't lean too close to students, didn't watch with too-hungry eyes and too-wide smiles) they snapped and barked and demanded. There was no time for moping under the military time-schedule, every hour dedicated to a purpose. Wake-eat-train-study-prepare-sleep, and start all over again at the piercing call of the bugle.

Alfred found himself thriving under military discipline, honing his mind and body and leaving his wounded heart alone. And as he'd started out bright and ended dark in Hetalia, he started out dark and ended up bright and happy and valued at the military school, his mind fixed on the schedule until he looked up one day and realized he had friends and he was learning new things every day, that he was doing well.

And then for the first time in a long time Alfred F. Jones smiled a genuine smile, and the boys around him laughed and jostled him in friendly fashion.

* * *

Arthur didn't dare ask after Alfred. So he had to content himself with eavesdropping on Matthew Williams, Alfred's Canadian cousin, listening with hungry ears and a hungry heart as Williams told his friend Yong Soo about emails from his cousin, about Alfred's new start at a military school, about how he had been the shame of the family and was now looking to be the pride again. Matthew talked about jokes Alfred was beginning to make again, mistakes and triumphs in drill and parade that took the place of practice hi-jinks, his new friends and new teachers and new classes.

Arthur would creep away and lock himself in the council room and shake.

If he really loved Alfred, he would be happy to hear that the other boy was doing so well. If he really loved Alfred, he'd smile to hear jokes that he was making for Matthew, he'd nod his head and know how good it was that Alfred had good friends in that new school.

But he wasn't happy. He was angry and sad and hurt. He wanted Alfred back here in Hetalia, here where there was Braginsky and Bonnefoy and teachers who traded A's for asses, favors for 'favors'. He was jealous of Alfred's new friends and wanted them gone, wanted them all gone, wanted to be the center of Alfred's world again. He even hated Williams a little, and the friends Williams shared tidbits of Alfred's new life with openly, remembered Williams' name only because of his having Alfred even if only in electronic email form while Arthur did not.

He wanted Alfred back and he didn't want to want it - the story of his life with teenage Alfred, wanting and not wanting all mixed up in a confusing, hurtful tangle. It had been simpler when they were children, when all they had to do was want simple childish wants and it would be given them. Everyday he wished for that, for an angel to come down and touch them with star-tipped wands, turn back the clock and turn them back to when they had been happy.

He had stopped sleeping with the other students; not that they minded, because the last few times - right after Alfred had left, and Arthur was drunk all the day long - Arthur had lain there limp and unresponsive, blank green eyes looking beyond their sweaty bodies to some place they did not see and could not follow him to, and they were left panting and unsatisfied and vaguely ashamed. The teachers too stopped, Arthur not forcing them to stop but merely becoming too uncomfortable to play with - too dead-eyed and cold-bodied, no sounds torn from his throat. And then Arthur's grades began to dip and he knew that during the next elections someone else would have his seat as council president.

But he didn't care.

And then during semester break, after the exams Arthur hardly remembered, Matthew invited him to spend a week with him in Canada. With Matthew and with Alfred.

Arthur stared with light coming back into his eyes, and couldn't gulp out a yes past the lump in his throat, so instead he nodded his head until his hair flopped into his eyes.


	4. now it consumes

_i saw its birth, i watched it grow_  
_i felt it change me_  
_i took the life, i ate it slow_  
_now it consumes me_  
-AFI

* * *

Arthur and Matthew arrived in Vancouver a day ahead of Alfred; Alfred's military school let out earlier, but he wanted to spend a week with his father, who was on a rare leave, before visiting with his cousin. Arthur didn't know how to feel about it - he wanted to see Alfred but he was scared to but...

He fidgeted and chewed his cheek until it was raw and bloody, and half the time he didn't hear Matthew when he tried to make conversation; once or twice, staring straight at the Canadian and daydreaming of Alfred, he had answered and called him 'Alfred' by accident. And then he'd apologize, but Matthew only smiled, a little sadly and a little pityingly, and smoothly changed the subject to something else.

They landed at Vancouver Airport, walked out past carved totem poles and indoor waterfalls, took a cab to the Williams' Vancouver residence in West Van. Vancouver was beautiful in the summer - green trees and blue sky, sparkling sea on one side and the tall gray mountains on the other - but Arthur hardly noticed. He stared out the window and was quiet. Beside him Matthew plugged into his iPod and bounced his knee along to the music of Nickelback (not that he'd ever ever let anyone know)

When they arrived at the Williams' house, there was no one there, the house remained empty for most of the year - Matthew's parents still at work in Ottawa and Quebec, and Matthew away at school in Europe, but the house wasn't too dusty (cleaning service, Matthew explained and Arthur pretended to care and even made comments about vacuums and his favorite type of cleanser that he forgot as soon as he'd said them.) They kept it because it's pretty in a pretty city with a pretty view, but they lived their lives elsewhere.

They settled in, Matthew even carrying Arthur's luggage for him (he'd been eating less, sleeping less, growing even thinner, since Alfred had left - sometimes when he'd been writing his exams, he had dropped his pen from shaking fingers. Matthew had seen him do it.) And then Matthew left to wander around the area after Arthur had told him he wanted to rest from the long flights (they'd had to transfer planes).

Arthur stayed in his guest-room and unpacked, methodical and neat, folding his clothes and sorting them into the chest of drawers. He paused over one shirt - the same white uniform shirt as the others, button-up, collared, starched into straight neat lines - but this was the shirt he'd worn when Alfred had confronted him in the council room, the shirt he'd deliberately unbuttoned in front of the American boy, fingers dancing over the plastic buttons, clenching around them to hide the shaking...the shirt he'd dropped on the floor as he crawled into Alfred's lap...

He took it into the bathroom, locked the door of the bedroom and then the door of the bathroom so there'd be two doors in between him and the rest of the world, fingered the thread where the missing button would be - the one he'd wrenched off in a spasm when Alfred shouted at him and asked "Why?" and he'd never replaced after. It was how he knew this was the shirt. He buried his face into it and inhaled.

He stripped naked, stepped into the shower and turned it on - the water fell like warm, sweet, soft rain - to hide the sounds as he reached down and touched himself softly - the first time in a long time - and for the first time in a long time he felt his body responding, blood moving in tingling rushes, his breath coming heavier. He thought of Alfred. He thought of Alfred's eyes rolling back into his head, Alfred's face flushing redly. He thought of Alfred, coming to this house where Arthur was, and of being near Alfred - being with Alfred - again.

He came and the shock of the pleasure was so great he fell to his knees, knocking his head against the tiled wall.

* * *

The next day, Alfred arrived, and Arthur lurked in the living room off the entrance-hall, watching quietly. Matthew happened to be out - picking up groceries for the big meal his cousin was sure to demand - and Alfred let himself in, having a spare key mailed to him for the purpose. Arthur drank him in with hungry eyes.

He looked more adult, now - stood a little straighter, his face even more angled than it had been when he left. His hair was cut short, military cut but growing out, and somehow a tiny curl sticking up in front the same as always. His clothes - the same jeans and t-shirt and leather jacket combo he always wore, but neater, ironed, jeans belted. Arthur felt himself fill with a strange tender yearning.

"Mattie?" Alfred called out, and Arthur sighed quietly. Even his voice had changed - deeper, a bit, and shaded with hints of an American accent, Southern-style, he'd always had from his father but more pronounced with his year in West Virginia.

Then Alfred caught sight of Arthur. He stopped dead-still. Arthur felt his heart pounding against his rib-cage, felt his head spin a little. He swallowed hard, took a step closer, smiling tentatively.

Alfred cocked his head to the side - that same puppy mannerism that he'd had always, that made little-Arthur crow with laughter when his baby Alfie had done it - and looked at him.

"...so how'd you pay Mattie for this vacation? Handjobs or blowjobs? Or did you let him fuck you?" he asked, in a polite, distant tone of voice, like someone asking about the weather.


	5. imperfect cry

Arthur flinched, staggered back one step, exactly like a man hit in the face. He even half-raised one hand, as if to ward off a blow.

"Alfred...I..."

"I mean," Alfred continued, cool, cruel, merciless, "I just want to know how much this vacation is supposed to be worth. Is Mattie planning something cool? Although I guess **I **wouldn't know exactly what a blowjob or a fucking translates to. Is there like a set conversion rate for you people? Or for Hetalia Academy at least?" He shrugged, eyes still on Arthur's face like a wolf watching prey. Arthur shivered and thought despairingly of older days, Alfred's eyes bright in adoration, not dark with disdain. Like this, he looked like Bonnefoy, like Braginski - he looked like Arthur's father, surveying his fuckup youngest son with disinterest.

"Sorry - I'm not that up to date on how whores operate."

Arthur let out a soft sound, a hurt, gasping keening, and then he turned and fled.

Behind Alfred, Matthew - slipping in unnoticed as he always did - dropped the bags of Safeway groceries and gasped. Alfred turned slowly, hands stuck in his pockets, face a picture of boredom - except for his eyes, which burned.

"Al - Alfred!" Matthew cried, staring shocked. "How could you?"

"How could **you**?" Alfred retorted, scowling. "How could you bring him here, Matt? Couldn't you at least have called and let me cancel? You know that I don't want to see him."

"I brought him here for you, asshole!" Matthew snapped, his hands curling into tight fists. "Because you love him..."

"Says who?" Alfred scoffed, and added unpleasantly: "While it's considerate for you to arrange a whore for me, I wonder what Uncle John will say about that..."

"Stop calling him that!" Matthew yelled, voice cracking from stress and upset.

"Why? That's what he is, after all," Alfred snarled, dropping his mask of bored disdain to give full vent for the ugly, wounded snarl of hurt and blind rage and jealousy that had lived inside him for almost a year. "A dirty, cocksucking -"

"Stop it!"

"**Whore**!" Alfred screamed defiantly. Matthew, knowing Arthur could hear them, shoved at Alfred, in an unthinking violent need to stop the hurtful words.

He'd forgotten where they were. The narrow staircase leading to the Williams' basement was tucked into the side of the foyer - near where Alfred was standing. The shove from his cousin should have knocked him back a step, and only that - except he stepped wrong, lost his balance. For a moment of shocked silence he seemed to hover in the air, his body tilted impossibly far, while his eyes and Matthew's widened.

And then he fell down, and by the time Matthew scrambled down to his cousin, Alfred was already unconscious, his head lolling loosely and blood smearing the door.

* * *

_So who is the father of Hungary's secret baby? What is the mysterious inheritance left to Iceland? Why is Spain so secretive lately? IS Romano really Romano - or his evil twin brother, Feliciano? And what will happen to Alfred? Tune in next week, same time, same channel, for another dramatic episode of Days of Our Hetalian Lives! _

_Okay not really but this is taking an awfully soap operatic turn isn't it.  
_


End file.
